Heaven's Demons and the Sorcerer's Stone
by Malo919
Summary: Harriet Potter, Victoria Potter, and Angel Black never thought that magic existed, until a letter came in the mail that turned their lives upside down. Now they made two new friends for life; Teddy Lupin and Selina Snape. They decide to continue their parents' legacies. And with the newest revelation of the Sorcerer's Stone...


**A/N: The first few chapters'll be based on Rowling's storyline, kay? All the chapters that you don't recognise come purely from my own imagination. The original story is Rowling's, and I have to put it in. Sorry if you don't like that. Also, I tweaked the story a bit to more follow what goes on in my head. Meaning you really won't know what's going to happen next. Disclaimer; I do not own anything you recognize; the stuff you don't is from my own imagination.**

Chapter One: The Girls Who Survived

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that someone would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Or even worse, the Blacks. The Lupins, they guessed, were alright. At least _they_ knew how to behave themselves and act normally.

Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't talked for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters and Blacks (who followed the Potters around like dogs, as well as the Lupins) arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small daughters, and the Blacks had one. The Lupins had a daughter too, and she was just adorable to the Dursleys. They would really mind if they were related to the Lupins. But these girls were still another reason to keep the freaks away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky to suggest strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kis Dudley but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. "Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar- a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen- then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive- no, _looking_ at the sign; cats couldn't read maps _or_ signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes- the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these wierdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But than it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt- these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. _He_ didn't see the owls swooping by in broad daylight, though people down in town did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl, even at night-time. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as they passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few of the words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard-"

"- Yes, their and the Black's daughters, Harriet, Angel, and Victoria-"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the reciever down and stroked his moustache, thinking... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Potter with two daughters named Harriet and Victoria. And he wasn't even sure the ones that had been talked about were friends with the Blacks. They could have been completely unrelated in any way. And there had been no connection with the Lupins, who had an unusual name and followed the Potters as much as the Blacks did. But, come to think of it, he wasn't even sure if those names _were_ his nephews' names. He'd never seen the kids. It might have been Harley and Veronica and Angelina. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her- if _he'd_ had a sister like that... but all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked right into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passerby stare, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me this day! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw- and it didn't improve his mood- was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Won't!"). Mr. Durs;ey tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news.

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman. "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early- it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters and Blacks...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er- Petunia, dear- you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls... shooting stars... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"_So?_" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought... maybe... it was something to do with... you know... _her_ crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered wether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter" and the name "Black" in the same sentence. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, "The Potter's daughters and the Black's- they'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so." said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's their names again? I thought it was Harley, Veronica, and Angelina, aren't they?"

"No. It's Harriet, Victoria, and Angel. Nasty, common names, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters and Blacks? If it did... if it got out that they were related to a pair of- well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters and Blacks _were_ involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters and Blacks knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on- he yawned and turned over- it couldn't effect _them_...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped right out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard. which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robbes, a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. Or he knew, but didn't care. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still starign at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again- the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Which was probably the point. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day." said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flockks of owls... shooting stars... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent- I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. "We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years."

"I know that." said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumours."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as thought hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on. "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really _has_ gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so." said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a lemon drop?"

"A _what_?"

"A lemon drop. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who _has_ gone-"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people in calling him by his proper name; _Voldemort_." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying 'You-Know-Who.' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name."

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, _Voldemort_, was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too- well- _noble_ to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madame Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing next to the _rumours_ that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another lemon drop and did not answer.

"What they're _saying_," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. Elizabeth Black and her daughter were there. The rumour is that she and Lily and James Potter are- are- that they're- _dead_."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James... even dear Elizabeth... I can't believe it... I don't want to believe it... Oh, Albus..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know... I know..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill both the Potter's daughters and even Elizabeth and Sirius' daughter. You know, Harriet, Victoria, and Angel. But- he couldn't. He couldn't kill those three little girls. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harriet and Victoria Potter and Angel Black, Voldemort's power broke- and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's- it's _true?_" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all he's done... all the people he's killed... he couldn't kill three little girls? It's just astounding... of all the things to stop him... But how in the name of heaven did Harry survive?"

"We can only guess." said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me _why_ you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harriet, Victoria, and Angel to their aunt and uncle. They're the only family they have left now, besides each other."

"You don't mean- you _can't_ mean the people who live _here_?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore- you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harriet and Victoria Potter and Angel Black come and live here!"

"It's the best place for them," said Dumbledore firmly. "Their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they're older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter?These people will never understand them! They'll be famous- legends- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Potter and Black day in the future- there will be books written about them- every child in our world will know their names!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any girl's head- and Angel's father was already far enough into that, I must say I am worried the girls didn't get anything from their mothers. But famous before they could walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how better off they'll be, growing up away from all that until they're ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, "Yes- yes, you're right of course. But how are the girls getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harriet, Victoria, and Angel underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing them."

"You think it- _wise_- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to- What was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky- and a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so _wild_- long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms, he was holding a big bundle of blankets. Inside, four babies laid, asleep.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them, sir. It took some time persuadin' Sirius that his daughter was better 'ere, like ya said."

"No problems, were there?"

"None besides Sirius and his arguements. House was almost destroyed, but I got the three out before the Muggles started swarmin' around. They fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, were four baby girls, all fast asleep, except for one with long golden hair and a few scars and big golden eyes. Another had messy, jet-black hair and a thin, lightning-shaped scar on her forehead. Another had fire-red hair and a lightning-shaped scar on her upper lip. The last had long, flowing, oil-slick black hair and a similar lightning-shaped scar on her left cheek.

"Those scars are where-?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "They'll have them forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well- give them here, Hagrid- We'd better get this over with. Wait a moment. Why is little Teddy here?"

"Wanted to see her friends off, she did."

"Very well. But they aren't going to see each other for quite a while." Dumbledore tried to take Victoria (the redhead), Harriet (messy-haired), and Angel (nice hair) from the blankets and into his arms, but Teddy grabbed their arms and wailed a little.

"No!" she said, putting on her best, I'm-Getting-My-Way face and trying to pull the girls back. "Mine!" she screamed, as though she owned them. This, it appeared, was too much for Professor McGonagall, who instantly burst into tears.

She took Teddy into her own arms and said, voice shaking a bit, "It's okay, Teddy. You'll see them again soon." Teddy wouldn't stop crying, so Professor McGonagall took her home.

The three girls seemed to notice her absence, even when asleep. They started to wake up, but Dumbledore shushed them before they could.

He set them on the front stoop and lingered for a minute.

"Good luck, girls." he murmured. He turned on his heel and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harriet Potter rolled over inside the girls' blankets without waking up. Her sister, Victoria Potter, wrapped her arms around Harry and Angel tightly, as though worried they might be taken away from her. Angel, who could easily be the most possesive, woke up silently (for once) and pulled the sisters closer for easier way of wrapping her arms around them. There the three legends lay, the sisters wrapped in their own arms, Angel's arms holding them tighter than before. Harry's small hand closed on the letter Dumbledore had left, and the three slept on, not knowing they were famous, not knowing they would be woken in a few hours time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley (who would stop once Victoria shrieked and Harry gave Angel permission to beat him up)... They couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices, "To the Potters and Black- the girls who survived!"


End file.
